


Ashes

by PengyChan



Series: Heaven and Earth [8]
Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Backstory, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-23 20:41:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21087521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PengyChan/pseuds/PengyChan
Summary: The first time Ernesto stopped Héctor from going home, it was to save his life.[If I’d returned home with them, this wouldn’t have happened.]





	Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> It's been... _months_ since I last posted anything for this series, but I finally got there. Better late than never. I think. 
> 
> Art by Elletoria.

The Revolution did not end in July 1914.

The Federal Army would keep going, aimless and weakened, for another month before disbanding. That didn’t mark the end of it, either; too many factions, too many factors at play; unrest and violence would continue to cause ripples throughout Mexico for years to come. 

But in Santa Cecilia, on one bright July morning, no one knew that. All they knew was that _ something _ was over at last, that Huerta was _ gone _ \- fucked off abroad, they said, and to hell with him and his _ mano de hierro _ \- and that was good enough reason to celebrate. 

Oh, did they celebrate.

There was food, there were drinks, there was music and dancing. Everyone with an instrument had brought it out, and Héctor and Ernesto were right in the middle of it, guitar in hand and singing their heart out. Héctor had never felt so much relief at once; it was almost like being drunk, while knowing there would be no headache to follow the wonderful sensation. He sang, he played, and occasionally caught sight of Imelda, who was dancing around with other girls, laughing and sometimes looking back at him, her smile so wide. 

_ We won, _that smile told him, and Héctor smiled back. 

There were fireworks, too - Ernesto’s father had brought the ones he’d made to the plaza, giving them around for free so that they could celebrate properly. And he’d stayed, which was new: Héctor had never seen Estéban de la Cruz joining the rest of them to celebrate anything. 

But the Federales had shot him in the shoulder, tried to take his son, burned down his old house; that would make anyone want to celebrate. He had something in his ears - soft wax, maybe, to tone down the explosions of the fireworks, so that he wouldn’t go into a panic again - so he couldn’t hear much, but he was laughing, already well in his cups, an arm around his wife.

Adela had drunk as well, just a glass or two, but it was enough to turn her cheeks all red. She laughed, too, talked with Héctor’s mother… until, of course, his father went to grab her hand, to get her to dance with him.

“Ricardo!” Emilia laughed, stumbling after her husband. They were both tall and gangly, the way Héctor was already turning out, all knees and elbows and with… nearly none of their son’s practice when it came to dancing. They were uncoordinated, stumbled more than they danced as they laughed, and when Héctor turned his gaze away from Imelda to see them, his smile widened. 

“Hey, Héctor! Go teach them how to dance, they’re awful,” Ernesto laughed, elbowing him while strumming his guitar at the same time. It made all the notes come out wrong, but the girl he was smiling at from afar didn’t seem to notice at all. 

Héctor scoffed. “I don’t see _ you _trying to show your parents how to dance!” he said, remembering only a few moments too late that Estéban had a lame leg. Ernesto didn’t seem to take notice, and laughed. 

“Hah! You’d have better luck trying to teach a bear than my old man, but at least he has the sense not to try.” Ernesto gave another strum and twirled, getting back to the spot where he’d been standing before approaching - which, Héctor couldn’t help but notice, had a heavier female presence than anywhere else in the plaza. 

Not Imelda, though. She wasn’t looking anywhere in Ernesto’s direction, dancing with her brothers who were just as bad as Héctor’s parents, and it was a relief. He was tempted, for a moment, to approach - to dance around with her, like they had at the party for her fifteenth birthday - but then he turned back to his parents, and made a different call.

Later, he would be glad he did; he and Imelda would get many more dances together, if not as many as a kinder fate would have allowed them. With his parents, that was to be the last. He’d leave his life behind too early and with many regrets but that, at least, wouldn’t be one of them.

“Papá!” he exclaimed with a laugh, stepping up to them and strumming his guitar again, voice loud to be heard through the playing and singing and laughter, the clinking glasses and cheers. “What are you trying to do? Pull her arms out of her sockets?”

“Hah, listen to him!” his father laughed, pulling his laughing mother into another clumsy half-turn. “Come back after _ you _ have danced with a girl!”

_ I have, _ Héctor thought, but did not, because it would have led to… a _ lot _ of questions, none of which he felt ready to answer right now. Besides he and Imelda had danced around each other, but never _ touched _ in the process. Not like Ernesto had danced with her, when they had to take time and keep soldiers distracted.

_ No need to think of it again. No more soldiers, and… and no more Imelda dancing with Ernesto. _

In the end, Héctor ignored his father’s comment and just kept playing, circlings his parents and making his mother laugh. There was so much joy in that laugh, so much relief - the kind that comes from the end of a nightmare, the realization she would never again have to fear Federales would come to take her only child for their war. “Is this a three way dance now? Like when you were little?”

“Can’t see why not,” Héctor grinned, and when his mother threw her arms around his neck to kiss his cheeks he almost toppled backwards. His father steadied them both, arms around them, and for a few moments they stood there in a tight hug. The music and cheers all around them were distant, like it all was happening very far away. Then they broke apart, danced and sang some more, and had a good time. Héctor would remember that evening fondly. 

And forever wish he could forget the night that followed.

* * *

“I think he did, you know.”

“Did what?”

“Dance with a girl.”

Ricardo, who’d placed the oil lamp next to the window for Héctor to better see when he got back home - it was dark outside - turned to glance at his wife. He was so taken aback he didn’t realize the latch hadn’t closed properly. “He did? I mean-- do you know something I don’t?”

Emilia chuckled. Her hair was dishevelled, her nose a little red; they’d both drank quite a bit more than usual, which was part of the reason why they had decided to leave the celebrations in the plaza and go home for what would probably be the first truly restful night in years. Héctor had seemed about to follow, but Ernesto had called for him from the other side of the plaza and it was clear that the boys were not done celebrating just yet. 

It was all right. They had every reason to celebrate. 

“I just know how to read him, mi amor. It was plain on his face,” Emilia was saying, and tapped his nose when he walked up to her. “A mother knows. Our boy is growing up.”

“Ay, so fast,” Ricardo sighed, then he leaned in to give her a peck on the lips. They were speculating over who the girl in question might be - neither of them thought of Imelda - when they stumbled upstairs and to the bed. Soon enough they were asleep in each other’s arms.

When a gust of wind threw open the window, knocking down the oil lamp, neither stirred.

* * *

“Hey, what…?”

“What is that?”

“Fire?”

“Fire!”

“Something’s burning!”

At first, Héctor didn’t really hear the alarmed cries. There was still so much noise all around, laughter and jokes and some drunken singing even now that they were too tired to keep playing. He was sitting on a bench, laughing at a joke someone had made, when suddenly Ernesto seemed to really hear the cries of alarm, and looked up. 

He’d been laughing, too, but suddenly all amusement disappeared from his face at once; it made Héctor think of a guitar string snapping, bringing the music to an abrupt half. The next moment his best friend had jumped on his feet, eyes wide. 

“Madre de-- isn’t that where your house is?”

_ What? _

Héctor turned so fast that his neck hurt, but he hardly even noticed. He felt numb, staring at the column of smoke that he could see now, against the moonlit sky, behind the houses immediately around the plaza. 

Ernesto was right. That was where his home was.

There was horror, probably, but if asked later on Héctor wouldn’t be able to recall what he thought, what he felt. The next moment he was up and running, getting the guitar off his shoulder and throwing it on the ground to go faster, unable to think of anything but one simple thing - _ he had to get home. _

“Héctor! Héctor, wait!”

Ernesto’s voice, usually so powerful, sounded incredibly small, so very distant. Other voices joined in, but Héctor could barely hear it through the rushing blood in his ears, the beating of his own heart, his panting breath as he kept running. Everything around him was a blur. It was such a short distance to run, it only took minutes, but they seemed to last hours.

_ It’s not my house. It’s not. He was wrong, Ernesto was wrong, it can’t be-- _

And then, after one last turn, was his home, engulfed in flames. Héctor stopped in his tracks so abruptly the momentum made him almost fall forward. He staggered and managed not to fall, leaning against the wall of a nearby house, staring at the scene with wide eyes.

Before him, there was roaring inferno; the wind was carrying all smoke the opposite direction, towards the hills. Smoke, ashes, and sparks that flared brightly against the night sky before dying down, taking away everything he’d ever owned except for the clothes on his back and the guitar he’d discarded on the way. 

But it was all right. It would be all right, they could get through it. Héctor drew in a deep breath, and turned to search for his parents in the gathering crowd. 

They were not there. 

No. No. No. _ No. “Mamá! Papá!” _

“Héctor! No! Stop!”

He didn’t listen, he couldn’t listen: all he could do was scream so loudly his throat hurt, scream for his parents and run towards the house, towards the flames, towards the burning, yawning mouth that had once been their front door. 

_ They’re in there they’re in there I have to get them out I have to-- _

“STOP!”

Ernesto’s scream was suddenly louder than his panicked thoughts, louder than the flames. A pair of arms grabbed him, impossibly strong, yanking him back, away from his house.

Away from his family. 

“No!” Héctor let out a scream like that of a wounded animal, and struggled to break free with raw, manic strength that he’d never had before, and would never have again. Later - much later, when they’d be able to talk about that night at all - Ernesto would admit he’d barely managed to hold onto him, a haunted look on his face.

“Stay back-- stay back, you can’t go in there! It’s suicide!”

_ “Let me go!” _

“It’s too late, you’ll get yourself killed! Come he--”

“NO!” Héctor screamed, and half-crazed with terror that threatened to turn into grief if he allowed himself to think, for even one moment, that it truly was too late. He threw back his head to hit Ernesto in the face; it was something he’d done before while they wrestled, but never with such violence. There was a cry, Ernesto’s grip slackened, and Héctor broke free. 

_ “Mamá! Pa--” _

“I SAID COME HERE!” 

Ernesto’s voice was closer to a roar than to anything human. Something struck Héctor’s back and suddenly he was on the ground, Ernesto on top of him, holding onto his midsection again. He was thrown back, away from the flames, landing painfully on his shoulder; he wouldn’t feel it until the next day. He struggled on his feet and Ernesto was before him, face bloodied and teeth bared in a snarl. He screamed something Héctor ignored; he tried again to run, to get past him and to his home, to his family, he had to--

A sudden blow to his stomach cut off his thoughts and breath, leaving Héctor to gasp and struggle to draw breath, knees folding. His ears buzzed, and suddenly everything was so far away. He groaned weakly when he felt someone grabbing his shirt, dragging him away. He got one last glimpse at the burning house, of his own hand stretched out towards it, then his vision began to go dark. The blaze dimmed, and faded into nothingness. 

“Apologies, my friend,” was the last thing he heard. “I can’t let you do this.”

* * *

* * *

They were found still in bed, doctor Sanchéz told him. Side by side, no sign they had even tried to get up, to get away.

“The smoke got to them before the fire did,” he said, his voice soft, a comforting hand on his shoulder. “They went in their sleep. They never knew anything was wrong. They didn’t suffer.”

Héctor supposed he should be thankful, because it would have broken him to think his parents had to burn alive, that their last moments had been filled with terror. They had been spared that, but they were still _ gone _ and oh, God, it hurt so much, it was so _ unfair. _

And maybe it had been his fault.

_ The oil lamp. They left it out for me, they always left it out for me. If I’d returned home with them, this wouldn’t have happened. _

The thought was maddening, and he cried out, tried to stand, screamed he had to _ go home. _ He was held down, a needle was pushed in his arm, and for a time he knew now more. 

* * *

Héctor’s guitar was broken when Ernesto found it. 

He’d known it was probably at least cracked; he’d seen the moment Héctor had taken it off his shoulder and thrown it on the ground while he kept running, discarding it like it was nothing. Ernesto had _ almost _ stopped to pick it up, and the thought of what may have happened if he had made his blood run cold. He’d caught up with Héctor just on time. 

If he’d been only a few seconds late, if he hadn’t been there to grab him when he had…

With the mind’s eye, he saw his best friend running into the flames and disappearing from sight. Face still blackened and throat scorched from the smoke and the screaming the previous night, Ernesto chased the thought from his mind. It didn’t matter now; he hadn’t stopped and he had been there at the right time, to keep Héctor from doing something suicidal.

Later, on the nights when he’d awaken in cold sweat after dreaming of a limp body hitting the cobblestones, Ernesto would think back of those moments and think that, at least, he hadn’t died burning - that he’d saved him from a worse death than the one he’d had to deliver.

But those nights were still years away and, for now, Ernesto focused on the guitar.

The neck had snapped almost clean in two, hanging on only by some splinters and the strings. Maybe it could be fixed, Ernesto thought. Héctor couldn’t be without a guitar, it seemed so _ wrong. _And besides, it was the only earthly possession he had left, aside from the clothes he’d been wearing and the songbook tucked in the guitar’s cover, back in the plaza.

_ And me. He still has me. _

Ernesto ran his fingers over the break. Maybe he could fix that; his father did the odd carpentry job from time to time, and he’d taught him the basics. It wouldn’t be like new, but if he could fix--

“How’s Héctor?”

Ernesto recoiled, and glanced up. Imelda was there, looking down at him with a somber expression, long braid whipping in the wind. Lucky for them that the wind hadn’t been that strong the previous night, or the flames may have spread, made more damage to houses nearby. He shrugged, looking back at the damaged guitar. 

“With doctor Sanchéz. They had to sedate him again, he said.”

“Did you see him?”

“No one can yet.”

“I see. Can you let me know whenever it’s possible? I’d like to give my condolences.”

_ You didn’t even know them, _Ernesto thought, but nodded instead, saying nothing. He expected her to leave. She did not.

“Padre Edmundo wants to hold the funeral in three days.”

“... No open caskets, I assume.”

“No. Better not.”

Ernesto swallowed, and made an effort to focus on the guitar - only for her to speak up again.

“How are you?”

Ernesto looked up again, taken aback. “What?”

“I heard you were at their home almost all the time, since you were little.”

“Ah. Right,” Ernesto muttered, and looked down at the wrecked guitar. No one had asked _ him _ how he felt - all the focus had of course been on Héctor, left orphaned by the fire. Ernesto still had both parents. Or at least, one and a half. And a home where he spent as little time as possible. Where would he _ go _ now?

_ “Make sure Héctor doesn’t get in trouble, will you? And be back by sundown!” _

_ “That’s a nasty cut, let me have a look…” _

_ “Would you like to stay for dinner?” _

_ “You can stay for the night, I’ll tell your parents you’re here.” _

_ “Ah, there you are! You’re staying for dinner, sí?” _

Ernesto’s grip tightened on the guitar, then he let out a long breath and forced himself to slacked in. “... I’m holding up.”

Imelda nodded, and didn’t prod any further. “I heard you saved his life.”

“So I can strangle him for trying to get himself killed,” Ernesto muttered, but he did smile a little, and looked back up at her. “But he’ll get to be around for a little longer.”

Imelda gave a faint smile of her own, but it lasted little. “Does he have no other family? Anyone he can stay with?”

Ernesto frowned, a little annoyed by the question even if he could think of no logical reason to be. “He has me.” _ And I’m more than enough. _“He’ll stay with me, for a while.”

“I thought you said your father doesn’t like him.”

“My father doesn’t like anyone. I’m not asking his permission,” Ernesto scoffed. There was another moment of silence, then Imelda sat next to him. 

“Is that your guitar?”

“Héctor’s.”

“I might be able to have that fixed.”

Oh. Ernesto hesitated, glancing over again. He was tempted to tell her not to bother, he could get that done, but truth be told he wasn’t entirely certain he’d be able to fix it. He hadn’t learned much carpentry from his father, in the end; he didn’t especially enjoy having to pull splinters out of his palms and fingers every damn time. Someone else to fix it may be ideal, but…

“I don’t have much money.”

“They won’t need payment, no worries. They’ll be happy to help.”

“They?”

“My brothers.”

“The Bobos?” Ernesto scoffed. “What do they know about guitars?”

Imelda rolled her eyes. “A lot, according to them.”

“... And according to you?”

“Next to nothing, but they learn fast.” She reached to take the broken guitar from his hands, and Ernesto let her. “Besides, I doubt they can damage it any worse than this.” A pause, and she wrinkled her nose. “... They might, really. But it’s not likely.”

He laughed a little, catching her by surprise. Nothing about what she said was _ that _ funny, but he was unable to stop himself for a few moments. “Hah! So, it’s a gamble,” he chuckled, and nodded. “All right, I’m ready to be amazed. One way or another.”

Imelda chuckled as well. “I’ll tell them the stakes are high,” she said, and stood, guitar held in her arms as carefully as one would hold a child. “Will you let me know when we can visit him?”

Ernesto stood as well. “Of course.” A pause. “... Gracias,” he added. Whether it was for the guitar or for asking _ him _ how he was doing, he wasn’t sure. 

She accepted his thanks with a nod and left without another word, walking fast as she always did, Héctor’s guitar cradled in her arms.

* * *

The funeral was a long, torturous nightmare.

Padre Edmundo prattled on about resting in peace, about basking in the light of the Lord and whatnot, but Héctor hardly listened. He just stood there, clad in black clothes that were too big for him, staring at the two caskets before the altar. Closed, of course - they had stayed closed during the wake, too. He could imagine the reason why, if he allowed himself to, but he did not.

Two closed caskets. May as well be empty. Maybe they were, maybe his parents were not there and would turn out to be all right. Maybe he would wake up in his bed, realize it had all been the worst nightmare of his life. He’d go to his parents, hug them, never let them go. 

But then the mass was over, the caskets were taken to the cemetery - Ernesto went to help carry his mother’s - and Héctor knew he was never going to wake up. He followed and stood before the grave, mind blank of anything except bleak despair; some people spoke to him, some patted his shoulder or his back, a few women hugged him - it was all a blur. 

And then there was Imelda, standing by his side, taking his hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. No words spoken, only that silent presence and warm hand; Héctor swallowed back tears, and squeezed it back. She had come see him while he was still in the doctor’s house, but he’d hardly even looked at her; even Ernesto’s attempt at making some music to distract him hardly got a reaction out of him. He’d just stared at the wall until they left. 

Knowing neither of them held it against him was a relief, cutting through the bleak despair - and yet, even then, he couldn’t manage to cry. 

* * *

“Come in, come in. Sit, dear - Ernesto, do get him something to eat. I’ll prepare a bed upstairs.”

Ernesto’s mother was kind as always, and Héctor managed to smile at her, to murmur a ‘gracias’ that was barely audible to his own ears. He followed Ernesto into the kitchen and sat; instead of getting him food, Ernesto sat by him and put an arm around his shoulders. 

“It will be all right, sí? We’re going to be all right,” he said, and ay, if only Héctor could believe it. If only--

“So, he’s staying here?” 

Estéban de le Cruz’s voice was a rumble, as always. The mere sound of it used to make Héctor feel on edge; now it barely registered. He turned to see him in the doorway, leaning on his good leg, arms crossed. He felt nothing. He thought nothing. He didn’t even try to say anything; if he’d grabbed him to throw him out, he’d have stayed limp and silent in his grip like marionette without strings. 

It was Ernesto to speak up, and he sounded fired up enough for them both.

“He is,” he snapped. “You’re welcome to sleep outside if it doesn’t suit you.”

Normally, Héctor supposed, there would have been anger - an argument, they had plenty of arguments and there shouldn’t be, _ no one _ should waste time with their parents with _ arguments _ \- but at first there was no reply at all. Ernesto’s father just limped through the kitchen, lame leg dragging over the wooden boards, to the cabinet by the table. 

“How old is he again?” he asked, gruffly, like Héctor wasn’t even there. 

Ernesto blinked. “Er… fourteen.”

A shrug. “Old enough.”

Something was placed on the table, causing Héctor to to recoil - a glass. Two glasses, and a bottle of tequila that was still half full. He stared in silence as the glasses were filled, and only glanced up as Estéban sat heavily, uttering a curse when he had to push his ruined leg under the table. He grimaced, and pushed one of the glasses towards Héctor. He took it without thinking. 

“Drink,” he said. “It helps, for a time. Just don’t be a the idiota who doesn’t know when to stop.”

“Don’t be like him, is what he means,” Ernesto muttered, but he took the glass. Héctor swallowed, and took his own before glancing over, wondering if he should start a toast to his parents’ memory and knowing he wouldn’t be able to do so without going insane. Estéban stared at him a moment; in his hand, he was holding the bottle with all the remaining tequila. 

“Out of all the cabrones in this village, I guess they were all right,” he grumbled, looking down at the table.

“What the-- listen here--” Ernesto sputtered, face turning red with anger, but he trailed off when something came out of Héctor’s mouth - a choking noise that sounded almost like a laugh. The closest to one he could manage, anyway. As his best friend turned to look at him like he’d gone loco, Héctor sniffled and wiped his eyes with his free hand. The corners of his lips were still curled upwards faintly when he spoke. 

“I think that’s the nicest thing I ever heard you say of anyone, señor de la Cruz.”

A snort. “Well, don’t get used to it,” Ernesto’s father grumbled, not a single hint of humor in his voice, and lifted the bottle in a silent toast. Ernesto lifted his glass and so did Héctor, hand shaking a little, struggling to hold back tears. When they tossed back the tequila, so did he. It burned his throat, made his eyes water, but it warmed him up - did something to loosen the icy knot his stomach seemed to have turned into. 

And finally, _ finally, _ he managed to cry. 

* * *

“... It’s not the prettiest of repairs, but it should hold up.”

Taken as he was looking at his guitar - the only thing he had left from _ before _ \- Héctor didn’t even realize that Imelda sounded remarkably nervous for someone who had faced off armed soldiers without flinching. He swallowed, and gave the guitar a soft strum.

“It needs tuning,” Ernesto pointed out, throwing a stone into the stream. It skipped across the surface, but he didn’t bother to count how many times: both he and Imelda stared at Héctor’s fingers as he tuned the strings, adjusted the guitar on his knees, strummed again. 

And, at long last, _ smiled. _

“Perfecto,” he said, and played a few notes. No, it wasn’t the prettiest of repairs; the guitar was damaged, would never be quite be the same, but the sound was still there. It could still make music, the kind his mother loved to listen to for hours and hours on end. _ He _ could still make music. He looked up, trying to keep his voice firm. “Gracias, Imelda.”

She smiled. “It was my brothers to fix it. And it’s the least we could do,” she said. Héctor was about to speak again, but suddenly Ernesto was holding something out before his face - a red songbook. _ His _ songbook. He’d completely forgotten he’d had it on him that night, that it hadn’t burned with… everything else.

“It’s good to have you back, hermanito,” Ernesto said, and smiled. “Don’t lose this again. There are plenty of pages yet to fill.”

Héctor swallowed a lump in his throat and nodded, taking it. He opened it, got to the first of the blank pages - so clean, so white - and he let out a long breath. 

He would fill those pages, all right, and he already knew _ who _his next song would be for. He had nothing left of his parents, not a single thing, but he had memories and enough talent to put the into music, so that was what he would do.

So that they could be together, at least, when he sang.


End file.
